


beautiful-strange, defiantly brash

by pr1nc3ssp34ch



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Blowjobs, Date Rape, Erica and Lydia are bros who make Derek's life miserable, Five Plus One, Grinding, Jealousy, Kinda?, Kiss-Rape, M/M, Marking, Oral Fixation, Oral Sex, Pining, Possessive Behavior, Stiles is oblivious, Succubi & Incubi, Tropes, cliche??? never, meaning there will be succubus kiss stealing, slight non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-06
Updated: 2013-04-06
Packaged: 2017-12-07 12:59:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/748771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pr1nc3ssp34ch/pseuds/pr1nc3ssp34ch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Derek is jealous during a year of pining for one Stiles Stilinski, and the one time he finally decides to take what he wants. </p><p>  <em>"Really, the wall slamming should have been his first clue."</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	beautiful-strange, defiantly brash

**Author's Note:**

> TRIGGER WARNING! There's non-con elements. There is a succubus who uses wiles. Very non-con-ish wiles. 
> 
> Now I will show you that time in which I decided to use like every possible trope in one fic. This is extremely crazily self-indulgent and stemmed from my boredom. 
> 
> Title Song: To Live And Let Go - All Time Low.

**\- ONE -**

 

Derek wonders where exactly his decisions have led him astray again. He knows that he's in the wrong, has finally taken the time to notice that, but  _when?_ The last time he can recall, he was still thinking of Stiles as the awkward hormonal  _stupid_ teenager who couldn't shut his mouth and wouldn't leave him alone.

 

He wishes that could be all he feels. He honestly, truly does. But somewhere in the whirlwind between the time Derek met Stiles, on that day in the woods where his throat still felt like fire, and today,  _now,_ his seventeenth birthday, Derek can admit things have changed. 

 

Because it was so easy, before, to ignore the trust. They were in so much more constant danger back then, so much less likely to see the big picture that Derek had just let it be. He'd let it grow and bloom because hell, he  _wanted_ to trust someone. He needed it like he needed air, needed to run on the full moon and feel whole. And when it had come in a Stiles Stilinski-wrapped package... Derek hadn't been particularly upset about that.

 

Now, months later, Derek has time to mourn the loss of any choice in the matter. He's never been one to fall fast - after all, it had taken Kate months and months to win his affection, his loyalty, his trust - but he's always,  _always_ been one to fall hard. He's spent all this time thinking Kate had ruined him when really, he should have been paying more attention to the one person who hadn't needed time to win his trust at all.

 

Stiles himself is inherently trustworthy. He goes out of his way for his friends, never lies unless he has to (but is  _good_ at it when it's helping someone), is always stubbornly trying to protect people he cares about. More than that, Stiles trusts others just as easily as they trust him. He throws himself out there, never once caring for how it could hurt him, how it  _has_ hurt him. He trusts Scott like a brother no matter how many times he's let him down. Trusts  _Derek_ even though he slammed him into far too many walls and threatened him far too many times.

 

Really, the wall slamming should have been his first clue.

 

In the grand scheme of things, Stiles isn't someone people ever identify as special. He's always there, always in the background, always providing what's needed to save the day without actually  _saving_ the day, most of the time. Because he is human with bird-light bones and bruisable skin and if Derek let him do the saving as much as he knew he wanted to, he would have to bear the guilt of watching the marks fade. Which isn't something he wants to allow.

 

So Stiles is a sideline. Except for all the ways that he  _isn't._ That's the mistake most people make. Because Stiles is a human, not a hunter, either, and people think of him as weak. They don't see what Derek sees; the sharp mind untainted by malice or vindictive instinct the way Lydia's tends to be, aided by his over-activity into working all the faster. The quiet observation, as though Stiles is regarding everything and leaving nothing behind, like he's seeing  _through_ them and they don't even notice. The spark of belief and will that's strong enough to attract mountain ash like a lover or a pet. Stiles is the mastermind, the kingpin, and he's so well hidden behind his own self doubt and insecurity that no one but Derek (and maybe Deaton) seems to be clued in on it.

 

Derek knows it's wrong, to want him the way he does. He knows it will never end well; something like Stiles, someone who burns good and bright and effortlessly beautiful, certainly isn't what Derek deserves. Can do far better than the burnt out husk of a man who blames himself for everything he's lost, a man who burns all that he touches. But when Stiles invited him to the party; so fucking  _shy,_ like he was actually  _nervous_ about his answer, it floored him. All he could manage was  _yes._

 

The torture of it is that half the people who hit on Stiles are probably, honestly, better for him than Derek is. More on par with what he needs, more able to give him what he wants. But even six stools away from where Derek's sitting, Stiles must be able to hear him growling, because he shoots confused looks down the line every time a pair of eyes widen and another hopeful stumbles drunkenly away. 

 

It's really not Derek's fault; the wolf inside him is  _pissed._ It never wanted Kate the way he wanted her, never understood his petty human attraction. But Stiles is so much more than Kate ever was. He's pushy and immature, mouthy and brass and  _brave_ and stupidly loyal. He challenges Derek just as often as he submits in a way that makes his wolf howl, makes it claw inside him to reach out of his chest and  _take take take._ The wolf inside him recognizes another worthy to be it's mate.

 

Derek recognizes a seventeen year old boy with far too much potential and far too little interest in him. It's funny how much Derek realizes the irony in that. He's never had to think of using his personality to get someone into bed; usually people come crawling once he slips out of his henley. But maybe that's the best part. When Stiles asks him questions, about what he did in New York, about what his major was in college, about his favorite TV shows, it's because he genuinely wants to know. Because he thinks Derek is fascinating, because he wants to be closer to him. Not body to body, chest to chest, but something deeper, something inside and closed off and intangible. It makes Derek's blood sing with his want.

 

But Stiles never looks him up and down. He never catalogues the way his muscle moves beyond  _hey, you have lots of muscle you could beat me up your abs are unrealistically unfair and I want them but I'm too skinny._ He never looks at Derek with the spicy-sweet scent of arousal. He looks at Derek and he smells like want, but not that type. Like want mixed with sadness, and happiness too, and a little bit of desperation cleverly masked in off-handed gestures and tangy curiousity. He looks at Derek like he wants to crawl inside of him and know each and every bit of information he can. It's the effortless ways Stiles makes him feel comfortable that make him want it most of all.

 

Stiles is the angel to his demon, always coaxing him into thinking of new ways to taint that beautiful innocence within violence that has him panting like an animal. But he never actually notices any of it. Stiles, for all his observant qualities, is completely oblivious when it comes to himself. At first Derek thought it was just because it was  _him,_ like Stiles would never believe someone like him would go for someone like Stiles (ludicrous notion, but one Derek maintains as possible). Further inspection tonight, however, reveals that Stiles is just honestly oblivious to his own charms. He doesn't notice when Guy #4's eyes never stray from his mouth as it moves, or the way Girl #2 (come on, this is a  _gay bar,_ really?) leans heavily into his space. He talks as if he can't quite believe anyone is giving him the time of day. 

 

Derek finds it hopelessly,  _stupidly_ endearing. 

 

**\- TWO -**

 

Stiles is forcing him to try his favorite curly fries.

 

Let it be known that Derek has actually surived almost an entire year without being coerced to this point. And at least 9 months of that year have been spent as Stiles'  _friend._ With at least 4 of them containing Derek's actual realization for his hopeless feelings for him. But he hasn't quite stooped this low yet, and that's actually something of a feat. When they'd left after the pack meeting, Scott had solemnly told him, "I'm impressed you lasted this long."

 

So when they pull into Mae's Diner on 6th avenue, Derek is pretty damn proud of himself. He's lasted longer than all of his betas, like a proper alpha. Of course, this makes him stop a moment to wonder when exactly he started thinking of resisting Stiles as a trait that would prove his alpha worthy status, and that's a road he can't quite travel down with said Stiles in a booth across from him.

 

Instead, he listens to Stiles talk.

 

"Honestly, how have you never tried them? It's been like, a rite of passage okay. No curly fries, no Stiles friendship. Although I can kind of understand why I'd skip certain friendship rituals with you, I mean, you did have to actually convince me you thought we were friends in the first place. Which is totally not a thing that's shocking that I'd be shocked about! I mean, jeez dude, you're so  _growly._ Oh my god."

 

Derek huffs. "I'm a  _werewolf._ "

 

The sound of Stiles' laughter is totally worth the petulance. 

 

"What can I get for you boys today?" 

 

The waitress is young, young enough that she probably goes to Stiles' school, and she's all glossy brown hair and big eyed, sweet smiles. Like something out of a fucking  _movie._ Stiles' eyebrows climb; it's clear, for all that he goes here, he's never met her before.

 

"Four orders of curly fries," Stiles says after a pause, and despite the fact that she's attractive, he doesn't stutter over his words, his scent not spiking with want. It's surprising, because even Derek thinks she's hot, and it begs the question; if Stiles isn't thinking about her, who  _is_ he thinking about?

 

Their waitress - Kensie - doesn't even pause at their double order. She just gives that sweet smile and asks him what he wants to drink. And when she takes his order, she leans down, offering - Jesus.

 

_Kensie_ is  _hitting on him._

 

Derek isn't even really shocked. He's a little bit offended - does he not look like he could be Stiles' date? - but ends up writing it off when he tastes her confidence on the air. She doesn't think this  _isn't_ a date; she just doesn't particularly care. Something about him uncoils a little. So they  _do_ look like they're dating. The wolf in him can't decide whether he should feel smug about that or angry at her for trying to come between them.

 

On their non-date.

 

"I'll have that right out for ya," she says with a wink, and then she's disappearing. Derek really shouldn't take pride in the way Stiles squawks indignantly -  _she didn't even ask if you wanted anything! rude! -_ but he does.

 

The waitress slips her number on the reciept with the message  _call me, cutie,_ but Derek insists on paying and tears it to shreds as soon as he gets home.

 

**\- THREE -**

 

Stiles barges straight into the pack meeting and immediately starts bragging to Scott about a date he has lined up tomorrow.

 

"You know the new girl? With the dark hair and like,  _whoa_ green eyes? She met me at my locker and asked me on a picnic date. A  _picnic date,_ Scott, this is serious." Scott, being the supportive best friend that he is, congratulates him, but every single wolf in the room can pick up on Derek's obvious jealousy. He isn't even trying to hide it anymore.

 

_I have dark hair and green eyes, too,_ he says in his mind, a little petulant. And so  _what?_ It's not like Stiles ever looks at him like he wants him. He's allowed to be petulant. The one time Derek wants someone, more than just their body, for  _years_ and Stiles doesn't even want that part. It's pathetic. He's pining. It's  _totally his style_ and he hates it.

 

Isaac slithers up under his arm, burying his face in Derek's neck and inhaling softly. "I could kill him," he mumbles, and Derek snorts. For all Isaac's confusingly confident and violent tendencies, he really has actually warmed up a lot to Derek, and he knows hurting Stiles in any way is practically a death sentence. But it's comforting, to have people who actually care about his feelings. He leans into the touch, holding comfortably onto the back of Isaac's neck in a subtle dominance gesture and trying not to growl every time Stiles mentions the name Ashley.

 

Alright, so maybe he listens in. Just to wonder where they're going. So he can... time his run in the woods properly.

 

Yeah.

 

He's not fooling anyone, but he's long since stopped caring what they think.

 

Lucky they don't stop him, though (probably way too resigned to his sadly creepy tendencies), because when he does make a pass through the woods near where Stiles said they'd be having their date, he scents the sickly-sweet trace of succubus venom on the air.

 

Derek debates stealth vs. howling before figuring he can handle this on his own and starting into the trees. The betas will sense his distress, but no howl means not life-or-death. Which it wont be, because Derek wont  _let_ it be. 

 

He crashes into the small clearing just in time to see Stiles' fingertips slipping from where they'd bunched in the girl's jacket, falling numbly beside him as the venom works it's way from his mouth to his bloodstream, making him limp and pliant in her arms. And maybe his snarl is trying to decide between snarl-because-kiss and snarl-because-death, but he can't focus on that because  _death,_ Stiles is getting the years  _drained away from him,_ and if that isn't enough to snap his jealousy to pieces, nothing will be.

 

The succubus pulls away long enough to flick him a grin, and for a moment it feels like he's been punched in the gut.  _Laura._ Except... no. Not Laura. Not the smell of packsister; smells like sticky-sweet-wrong, and Derek's focus slams back, despite his confusion. Stiles' perfect woman is... Laura?

 

No, not quite. There's a heavier set to her eyebrows, a thinner curve to her mouth. He realizes she looks a lot like Derek himself. 

 

Apparently she notices it too, because she looks him up and down and her eyes widen in realization. "So  _you're_ the one making this so difficult. I thought he'd never shut up and kiss me, what with how he kept talking about you." She grins at him, then, and it's all too-sharp teeth and predatory glances that make the alpha in him rear it's head.  _Predator, not prey, she is prey._ His eyes bleed red, and his snarl shakes the trees. The succubus laughs.

 

"Big bad alpha here to save the day; just like I knew you would be. Sure I can't tempt you with something else?" Her hair lightens, eyes swimming into a murky amber, nose turning up, lips plumping until she's... Stiles. If Stiles were a girl, he thinks, at least. 

 

And it's obviously the way she thought she'd get to him, but Derek feels  _revolted,_ because those are Stiles' features on a monster, on someone he doesn't - fuck, he can't say it - and the body still smells like cloying decay and venom and it's horrible and  _wrong_ and not-good and Derek is attacking before he knows what's happening.

 

Her own claws come out, similar to a kanima's in their paralytic power, and he jumps to a tree, falling onto her back and forcing her claws into the rough forest floor. She's strong, but he's stronger - he has something to fight for.

 

" _Never,_ " he growls, and she whimpers into the dirt. She's surrendering, he knows it, but Stiles is drugged out not six feet away, and he can't feel bad when he rips her throat out and her body slowly melts into the ground.

 

Well at least that took care of itself.

 

Now that the threat is gone, Derek lets his claws retract, his face morphing back to human as he takes the steps required to get to Stiles, dropping to his knees on the wet ground. Stiles is breathing, deep and even like he's asleep, but his eyes are open, and when he sees Derek he reaches a clumsy hand towards his face.

 

"This - s'better," he slurs, and for a moment Derek forgets to breathe.

 

"Are you hurt?" Is what he manages but nothing to do with what he wants to say, and Stiles laughs. "Hurt - inside." He points to his chest, and Derek's heart clenches in his chest. "Can't... get someone t'like me f'real. Gettin old, D'rek." Derek relaxes, then tenses up again, because is that  _really_ what he thinks?

 

"You're an idiot," he replies, not offering more as he picks Stiles up from the musty-damp forest floor. For some reason, though, it makes him smile, and when Derek brushes a kiss to his cool forehead, he tells himself Stiles wont remember much of this, anyway.

 

**\- FOUR -**

 

Erica is a mother _fucker._

 

He knew, instinctively, that biting her would prove to be a bitch. He just never realized that part meant she would  _ruin his life_ like she is. Because Erica knows, and knows well, exactly what he feels for Stiles.

 

And she has Lydia in on it.

 

They both take way too much pleasure in getting a rise out of Derek.

 

Lydia starts touching Stiles whenever Derek is around. Small touches, nothing Stiles would notice or mistake for an advance, but casually intimate in a way that makes Derek want to whine and paw at the ground. He  _wants_ that, wants it bad enough he can taste it, and Lydia knows it, that bitch, she knows it and she uses it.

 

Their main goal is getting Stiles to notice Derek noticing.

 

It doesn't work.

 

They try pretty much everything in their arsenal beyond shoving their tits in Stiles' face with only Derek in the room as company. Lydia runs her fingers through Stiles grown-out hair, massaging his scalp with her nails and making him utter the most blissed out noises Derek's ever heard in his  _life._ Erica, after a particularly memorable day at the lake, sits in Stiles' lap with hardly any clothes on and  _wiggles_ until it's amazing there isn't more want surging off him. They  _tag team him_ and curl around him in Derek's bed, making it smell like Stiles' scent combined with theirs in a way that will bother him for weeks on end.

 

Stiles doesn't notice a thing.

 

And Derek would be smug about all his subtlety, honestly, if it weren't for the fact that he sleeps on the couch for three weeks.

 

**\- FIVE -**

 

Derek is nearing breaking point. It's clear to pretty much everyone in the general vicinity that he's practically done for. Because it's summer, and it's weeks away from Stiles' closest birthday, and he's walking around in far to few clothes and using his oral fixation like a  _weapon._ If weapons can be oblivious to their casualties, which he somehow seems to be.

 

Even Danny is begging Derek to make a move at this point.

 

Honestly, Derek was going to make one anyway. He's had almost a year to resign himself to the fact that there wasn't going to be anyone else. Stiles' weight is settled in his chest and refuses to leave, crushing him into something fixable,  _workable_ enough that he doesn't think he's such a lost cause anymore. On good days, he can even admit that Stiles might benefit from someone who'd listen to his rambling without telling him to shut up or interrupting halfway through because they haven't been listening.

 

Because Derek  _does_ listen. He knows more than he ever needed to about almost every trivial topic he can think of, and he plainly doesn't care in the least. Stiles' voice is wonderful, all middling-alto mixed with deep tenor and soothing tones battling awkward cracking points, and it's a messy contradiction that he wants to listen to more than anything else. He talks a mile a minute, about anything and everything, but Derek has realized one important thing about Stiles; he only talks like that to people he wants to listen.

 

Sure, he mouths off to any stray enemy crossing their paths, and he can snark like a  _bitch,_ but when Stiles rambles, when he goes on and on about Roman war history or civil rights movements in eastern Asia, it means he's comfortable. It means that whoever he's with, he's feeling safe and happy enough to let his guard down with, to just let whatever he's thinking tumble from his mouth around because he wants them to know. Wants to let them inside his crazy-messy-beautiful mind. And that? That's what Derek thinks works for them best.

 

Because Derek is the only one who comments back.

 

Stiles doesn't need someone who can listen to him and pay attention, he needs more. He needs Derek, who actually sometimes  _researches_ the stuff he doesn't know about, because it's interesting and because next time he talks to Stiles he can bring it out and watch his mouth stretch into an impossibly happy smile. He needs someone who strives to meet him, to catch up to the gears in his head that work too fast, just as much as he needs someone calm enough to slow him down. A year ago Derek wouldn't have thought of himself for that. He was still too angry, too brutal and young and  _stuck,_ but this year is different. Stiles is  _good_ for him. Stiles is breaking his eggshells.

 

Derek doesn't really mind.

 

But when Derek tastes like jealousy while Stiles  _uses a straw,_ Erica stabs the heel of her shoe through his big toe.

 

It's the only real wake-up call he needs.

 

**\- BONUS -**

 

It's strange, the way some things come full circle. A year ago, Derek was sitting at the exact same bar, thinking to himself,  _how did I let it get this bad? How did I fall in love with a ridiculous seventeen year old with zero self-preservation skill and conflicting levels of observational skill?_

 

This year, Stiles is eighteen, and Derek is asking,  _why the hell is Stiles dancing on another guy?_ Because these are his problems. This is his life and someone else is touching Stiles when it's finally fucking  _legal_ for  _him_ to be touching Stiles, and he's growling very inhumanly and doesn't seem to care at all.

 

The guy backs off immediately at the sight of the murder in Derek's eyes, but Stiles doesn't notice because he's had a shot already (the first of Derek's birthday presents) and Derek is slipping straight into mystery-guy's place.

 

It takes Stiles a moment before he relaxes totally into the embrace, moving his hips almost absently. "Mmm, Derek," he breathes, and for a moment Derek kind of wants to  _die,_ but then, "Thanks for that. That guy. Totally  _pushy._ Don't want hands some places you know?" And Stiles is an  _idiot._ A moron. A - damn it, fuck, that guy tried to touch him and Stiles said no and he did it anyway, the murder is back in his eyes,  _shit,_ really not good for his - total, oblivious fool.

 

So Derek presses his hands against Stiles' hips until he's sure any harder and they'd bruise, and he pushes Stiles' hips against his, keeping their backs plastered together as he moves his hips in slow,  _obscene_ figure eights.

 

Even in the din of the room, it's practically impossible for him not to hear Stiles' heartbeat stutter, and he definitely can't miss the low "fuck" slipping out of his mouth before Stiles' hands wrap around his neck and he moves in ways Derek is totally unprepared for and seriously fucking turned on by.

 

"Best. Birthday. Ever," he pants between beats of the bass, and Derek can't take another second in the heat of the crowd anymore. 

 

Stiles' hands are sweaty in his, but their fingers link together tightly, and when Derek pushes them straight out the door and towards where he parked the car, Stiles doesn't complain. In fact, he doesn't speak again until Derek is pushing him up against the Camaro, kissing him like he wants to suffocate and not even  _care_ and slipping a thigh between his. "Oh  _Jesus,_ " Stiles breathes, and Derek smirks a little. Stiles rolls his eyes, but doesn't let go from where his hands have found a purchase in Derek's jacket. "I would flick your smug mouth right now if I wasn't like, boneless out of my  _mind,_ " and that makes Derek's mouth turn up at the corners, but Stiles is clearly beyond caring. 

 

He presses his lips against Derek's again, and then he laps at his mouth,  _sweetly,_ and it kills him, splatters Derek's brain and heart against the ground. Because even buzzed and pliant and horny, Stiles is still sugar-sweet on his tongue, still giving him exactly what he needs. Flame burns up his spine and it's the best kind, the good kind of fire he's spent so much time forgetting. He grinds his hips down and Stiles pants, open-mouthed against him, like he's finishing a race.

 

"Oh, god,  _Derek,_ " and yeah, that's even nicer than being called a deity. Derek suckles at the hollow between his jawbone and throat, and Stiles breathes a high-pitched noise that makes his hips stutter again. "Oh my,  _god,_ we are in  _public_ you little shit, get me in your  _car,_ you bitch," and Derek opens the door without breaking from his skin, pushing him in only when he's satisfied the mark will stay.  _  
_

 

He thinks he might hear Stiles make a comment, but he isn't paying attention when he gets in the car on the other side.

 

His loft is all the way on the other side of town, which normally is a wonderful savior from all the loud noise Jungle provides, but right now is just a really big problem. Derek speeds, despite dating the Sheriff's son, and when Stiles' hand creeps up his thigh, it takes all of his effort to drop his palm and cover it, to stop even though the idea of getting anything from Stiles while driving is enough that he practically rear-ends the subaru in front of him. "I'm going to crash," he says weakly, and Stiles' dark chuckle does nothing to dispel that feeling.

 

Derek manages to get the key into the lock, but it takes him at least three tries when Stiles is pressing hot, open mouthed kisses to every single bit of skin he can reach and palming him through his jeans. So Stiles totally does not reserve the right to his indignant squawk when Derek rips his shirt off. Because  _fuck._ For a moment it looks like Stiles is going to hit him, but then he just sighs and says, "I wish I could say I hate you but that was just  _hot_ come  _here,_ " and the hot press of his mouth is searing Derek's like a brand all over again.

 

Stiles is trembling when he pushes his body against the door, but it's a good tremble, the kind Derek's feeling too. He breaks away from Stiles' mouth to slide straight down to his knees, and  _then_ Stiles is shaking, full on - Derek tries to keep a lid on his smug smile.

 

"Shirt. Off." Alright, so he's never been one for eloquence. But Stiles groans like it's hot that he can't form a sentence, and he leans his torso up and works his shirt off as Derek pulls his zipper down with his teeth and pulls his jeans and boxers down enough to swallow the head of his cock.

 

"Oh  _Jesus fuck -_ " Stiles' head hits the door, hard, and he moans, but not in pain. His hips jut outwards, but Derek gets a hold on them, easily pressing them back to the door so he can relax his jaw, slowly taking him in until he's swallowing around the head. He's never loved this, never quite gotten used to the  _burnhealburnhealburn_ of it, but Stiles' scent is so concentrated here, his stuttering whine so sweet, that Derek thinks he could learn to love it.

 

He bobs his head, pressing bruises into Stiles' hips. They're going to be purple tomorrow, covered in finger-tip smudges,  _his._ He moans around him, and Stiles hits the door with his fist, his breathing coming harsh and fast. "Derek, fuck," he pants, and it's a heady thing, to have reduced Stiles to monosyllables, "Gonna - "

 

Every muscle in Stiles' body tightens, and for a moment everything is quiet. Derek pulls his head back to suckle at the tip, and then Stiles is coming and Derek is swallowing, drinking in the taste of Stiles, of everything he never knew he wanted. His own length presses painfully against his zipper, but when Stiles pulls him up by the hair into a rough, slow kiss, he's less bothered by it than he is pleased that he's turned Stiles' body to putty beneath his weight.

 

"In a minute," Stiles breathes, "You're going to pull me into your bedroom and fuck me. But I... honestly, I probably can't walk yet."

 

Derek's grin is feral, and it gleams in the darkness as he wraps Stiles' legs easily around his waist.

 

"I think I've waited long enough." 

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on tumblr [here](http://pr1nc3ssp34ch.tumblr.com).


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